“You all right?” said Mason, getting up.
“Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?” I snapped back.
“It’s just that she kept asking you about the money you were getting,” he said.
“She’s a journalist. What else is she going to ask me?” I said. Mason turned away.
“OK. Well, I’ll see you tomorrow then,” he said.
I didn’t answer him as I looked around our worn-out room. I had a bad feeling about Cathy’s newspaper article. A very bad feeling indeed.
In the Newspaper
When I walked into form the next day, everyone stopped talking and turned round to stare at me. I sat down next to Isla. There was no sign of Mason; he must have slept through his alarm again.
“What’s going on?” I asked quietly. Isla frowned.
“They’ve been talking about your interview,” she said. “The one in the newspaper.”
“What about it?”
Isla took her phone out of her bag, checked that Miss Canning wasn’t about to appear, then scrolled the screen. The headline made my stomach churn.
MUM AND DAD HAVE DESIGNS ON MY MILLIONS!
Cole Miller has burst on to the art scene as the next “big new thing”, but how will he spend his money? The 12-year-old art prodigy’s first painting, ‘A Sky in Blue’, sold at the Marika Loft Gallery for an impressive £1,000. However, Ms Loft said that the young boy is destined for huge wealth, as interest increases around his next picture (as yet untitled), due to be sold at auction in a couple of weeks.
I visited Cole in his family’s rundown, three-bedroomed terraced house.
“I’d like some new trainers, but my parents need the money to repair the boiler,” he told me sadly. Looking around the Miller home, I can see that money appears to be exceptionally tight. I couldn’t help but wonder if Cole’s attempt to sell a second painting was more his parents’ idea than Marika Loft’s? The Loft Gallery were unavailable to comment.
I stopped reading, feeling a bit sick. I hadn’t said that at all!
“Is it true?” whispered Isla. “Are your parents making you paint and taking the money?”
“No!” I said. I scrolled further down the screen and saw the photograph that she’d taken of me on our worn-out sofa. Behind me was the bare patch of plaster. I looked thoroughly miserable. Underneath it read:
“I just want some new trainers,” said Cole Miller, 12.
Isla quickly put her phone back in her bag as Miss Canning walked in. Mason came rushing in behind her and dived into his seat.
“What have I missed?” he asked. Isla whispered to him while I stared at the desk. This was awful. Now everyone would think my parents were money-grabbing!
Miss Canning took the register and then we all trooped off to the hall for a whole-school assembly. We had to sit through these assemblies once a month and everyone hated them. The corridor was packed and a hand thumped me on the back.
“Is it true that you’re paying your dad to look after you and your sister?” said Hannah. I thought she was joking, but she looked serious.
“Of course I’m not,” I mumbled.
“I heard they’re going to keep all the money but give you an allowance of one pound a week,” said Niall, Leyton smirking beside him. “Ha! That’s a pound more than you were getting before though, right, Cole?” he said.
I looked up for Mason and Isla but they were deep in conversation a few metres ahead. Probably talking about me.
“I really think you should get a manager or someone to look after your money, Cole,” said Kiki. A few others tried to push closer to hear what was going on.
“My parents aren’t taking my money, OK?!” I said to the crowd around me. “The newspaper was lying!”
I pushed my way through to the hall and sat between Dean and Pia. I slumped down in my seat as far as I could. The teachers were really strict in assemblies and they stalked the edges of the hall, watching for talkers. No one dared say anything else to me.
Mr Taylor began by handing out various sports trophies and awards. Isla collected two certificates. One for getting top grades in a music exam and one for a geography project she did on South America.
“What outstanding students we have in this school,” said Mr Taylor, after he’d handed out the last award. “Crowther High really does have an incredible amount of talent in this hall right now…”
I fidgeted in my seat and glanced at the clock. There was still ten minutes to go. It was dragging on for ever.
“And talents can reveal themselves from a very young age, as history has shown,” he continued. “Who would like to guess how old Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart was when he began composing? Anyone?”
A few people shot a look at Isla and sniggered. Three hands went up and he pointed to a boy in the middle.
“Thirty-four?” he said. Mr Taylor smiled and shook his head.
“Mozart was just five years old when he began creating music. Isn’t that incredible?” he said. No one reacted. We were all just waiting for assembly to be over.
“And I’m delighted to say that Crowther High has its very own ‘Mozart’, but this time from the art world. Where are you, Cole Miller?”
I squirmed in my seat as every head turned to me.
“Could you stand up, please?” Mr Taylor called, stretching his neck to try and find me. I kept my head down but slowly rose to my feet.
“Ah! There he is. I’m sure many of you know that Cole has already sold a painting at the renowned Marika Loft Gallery. He is currently working on his second piece, which will be sold soon at auction, isn’t that right, Cole?”
I nodded, not looking up. There was no way I was going to actually say anything.
“And because of Cole’s amazing artistic abilities, Marika Loft has decided to invest in our art department to help nurture the talents of our students. Could we all give Cole a big round of applause?”
I glanced up and saw the teachers around the edge of the hall smiling at me and clapping enthusiastically. The kids around me just slapped their hands together and a couple of them yawned. I waited a few seconds then sat down, sliding in my chair as low as I could. Mr Taylor read a few notices about some sporting events coming up in the school calendar and then assembly was over.
“Oohh, get Picasso,” said Archie as we all filed out to first lesson. “Who’s the next big thing, eh?”
Everyone started laughing until one of the teachers told them to be quiet. I spent the rest of the day trying to smile and laugh along with everyone’s comments, but it got really tiring. Mrs Frampton stopped me in the corridor.
“Cole! Are you painting in my class later? I have a few ideas if you wanted my help at all?”
A few students hung around, waiting to hear what I’d say.
“I can’t tonight. I’m busy,” I said. The truth was, I couldn’t face staring at another blank canvas.
When I got in from school, Mum was already home. She and Dad were in the kitchen. Dad jumped when I walked in, so I guessed they’d been talking about me.
“Cole!” said Dad, looking over Mum’s shoulder. “How was school? All OK?”
“Yep, all good,” I said, even though it had been a pretty awful day.
There was a copy of the Daily Chatter on the kitchen table. They must have seen Cathy’s article.
“We need to talk to you, darling,” said Mum. “Your father and I have discussed it and we have decided that you should keep all the money from your first painting. We’re going to open an account for you this week.”
“What? But that’s stupid! The boiler needs fixing, the house needs decorating…” I shouted. “And you’re going to be out of a job soon. Then what will we do?”
Dad sighed.
“But it’s not our money to spend,” he said. “It’s yours.”
I folded my arms. “Well, in that case I will pay for the boiler to be fixed.”
Mum smiled. “That’s really sweet of you, Cole, but we’ve made our decision. They said
in the paper that—”
“I don’t care what the newspaper people say, it’s my money and it’s up to me what I do with it. And I choose that it is spent on things at home. OK?”
Mum was about to try and hug me but I took a step back. She looked at Dad.
“It would help us out, Jenny,” he said. “Perhaps we can pay him back?”
“Doug, I’m going to be unemployed in a few weeks’ time. How are we going to do that?”
“That’s even more reason to use the money, then!” I said.
Mum looked between us.
“And anyway,” I said, “my next painting is going to sell way more than the first. You saw what Marika said in the paper, didn’t you? ‘Destined for huge wealth’. That’s what she said about me! We’re going to be rich!”
Mum took a breath and laughed.
“I guess if the next painting goes for more, then Cole can have most of it,” she said.
“What do you mean if?” I laughed. “It’s going to sell for a fortune!”
Dad laughed too then. “That’s the spirit! This family is due some good luck at last!” he said.
“We could get the washing machine looked at,” said Mum, her eyes shining. “It keeps getting stuck on spin. And you need a new mattress, Cole, and we could maybe get a rug to go over the carpet in the lounge. I hate that carpet.”
“We should definitely get the lounge decorated,” I said, thinking of the photo in the paper. “That’s got to be at the top of the list. And we all need some smart clothes to wear to the gallery. Something posh.”
Dad put his arm around Mum. They seemed taller than usual, like they could float up to the ceiling. It was like a huge, heavy burden had been taken off their shoulders.
“Thank you, Cole,” Mum said. The two of them squeezed me into a big hug. My stomach churned as I shut my eyes. I wanted to tell them that I was worrying. That I wasn’t sure I’d be able to paint anything at all. But I couldn’t quite find the right words.
The Pressure is On
For the next week and a half I went into school an hour early, worked through every break time, and stayed for an hour after normal lessons had finished. By the end of the week I had sent three photos to Declan: ‘A Sky in Pink’, ‘A Sky in Red’ and ‘A Sky in Green’. Declan messaged back after each one saying Marika didn’t think they were quite right.
Marika said to forget your first painting and try something new. Paint from the heart.
I didn’t reply and it wasn’t long before he became suspicious.
If you need more time, Cole, then please let me know immediately. The launch is just days away. It would be extremely awkward if we have nothing to auction. Declan
I quickly typed my reply.
No, it’s all fine! It’s coming along great! It has lots of heart and asks lots of questions! I’ll send you a photo asap! Cole
On Wednesday, after school I was back in the art room. The auction was three days away.
“Cole, I’ve been thinking,” said Mrs Frampton from behind her desk. “Why don’t we call Ms Loft and tell her that you’re having a bit of trouble finding your feet with this painting? I’m sure she would understand if you need more time.”
I didn’t look up as I pressed my brush on to the board, a pile of ruined canvases beside me.
Mrs Frampton didn’t understand. Time was something I didn’t have. The museum was shutting down soon and we needed the money. Fast.
I shook my head.
“It’s fine. This one is going to be much better,” I said. “I’m trying something different.” I put my brush down and took a pace back. Mrs Frampton got up and stood beside me. This time I’d tried to paint a jug that had been on a shelf in the art room. It looked more like a giant jelly baby.
“I just don’t think it’s working, Cole. I think… I think there’s too much pressure on you and I think you’re trying too hard.”
“I’m not trying too hard,” I snapped back. I picked up my brush and began to paint again. What did she know? She was just a stupid art teacher. Marika hadn’t even taken any notice of her when she came to our school!
Mrs Frampton stood there for a while, then went back to her desk. I painted a few more strokes before I threw down my brush and grabbed my bag. I’d had enough.
“Remember what I said, Cole,” called Mrs Frampton. “You can ask for more time. It doesn’t mean you’re giving in!”
“I’m fine, Miss,” I said, and I closed the door behind me.
When I got home, Dad asked if I could look after Mabel while he popped out to buy something smart to wear for the auction. Mum had already ordered some clothes for me. They were still unopened in my bedroom.
“How’s the painting?” he said.
I gave him the biggest smile I could. “Great!” I said. “I’m really pleased with it.”
Dad smiled and placed his hand on my arm.
“That’s terrific, Cole,” he said. “We’re so very proud of you, you know.”
There was a clatter upstairs. It sounded like Mabel was in my bedroom.
“You’d better make sure she’s not going through those paints that Declan brought round,” said Dad, putting his denim jacket on. “I caught her in your room earlier.”
I watched him putting his phone and keys into his jacket pocket. The urge to say something was overwhelming. I wanted to grab him tightly around his waist and tell him. To tell him that I couldn’t do the painting and that I had let them all down. I took a deep breath as Dad turned to me.
“Thanks, son,” he said. “You’ve really given this family hope. We’ll never forget it.” He ruffled my hair and opened the front door. As it closed behind him I ran upstairs. Mabel was sitting on my carpet with a canvas on the floor in front of her. She had an open tube of red paint in one hand and one of grey in the other.
“Mabel! What are you doing?!” I shouted.
“Making pictures like Cole!” she said, with a huge smile.
“No!” I shouted. “Those paints are really expensive. They’re not yours to play with. Put them down, NOW!”
Mabel looked at me. She looked at the tubes of paint in her hands, and at the fresh, blank canvas on the floor. The temptation was just too much. She took a little breath then squeezed. Two lumps of red and grey paint splatted on to the board. We both stared at them. Mabel rested the tubes on the cardboard lid of the box, then pressed her fingers into the blobs. She slowly swirled the paint up and down, making two long oblong shapes on each side of the canvas.
“Mabel! Stop!” I said. “You’re making a mess!” She ignored me and began to pitter-patter her little fingers all over the canvas like tiny raindrops.
“Aren’t you listening?” I said. “You’re not supposed to touch things that don’t belong to you. Mum and Dad are going to be so angry when I tell them!”
She looked at me, and then back at her picture.
“This is Cole,” she said, pointing to the large, red blob. “And this is Mabel.” She pointed to the grey blob. “We’re catching the butterflies!”
I stared at the canvas. She was painting a picture of us playing her favourite game. The little dots that she had made with her fingertips were butterflies, not raindrops.
“Cole play the butterfly game now?” she said. If there was one thing I really, really didn’t want to do, it was play that stupid game.
“Look, if you’re really, really careful then you can finish the picture, OK?”
My little sister’s lips curled up and her eyes twinkled. She grabbed a brush from the box.
“Wait and I’ll fetch some newspaper so you don’t get paint on the carpet,” I said. “Don’t touch anything.” I quickly ran downstairs, got the Daily Chatter from the kitchen table, then went back to my room and spread it on the floor. I put Mabel’s painting on top.
“Cole do a painting too?” she said, moving her brush on the board.
“I can’t. I’ve tried, but I just can’t do it again,” I said. “I’ve let everybody
down, Mabel. Marika, the school, Mum, Dad, you … everyone. They all think I’m special, but I’m not.”
As I watched my little sister paint as if she didn’t have a care in the world, I could feel all the worry bubbling up to the back of my throat. A tear ran down my cheek and I quickly wiped it away.
“Marika Loft has made a really big mistake,” I continued. “I’m not an art prodigy. That painting was just a fluke. I won’t have anything to take to the auction and everyone will know the truth. That I’m just one big fake. Mum will lose her job at the museum and we won’t have any money and…”
I didn’t finish my sentence. The thought of Mum being unemployed made me really want to sob, and I didn’t want to do that in front of Mabel. But she was too absorbed in her painting to notice. She sat back and dropped the paint-covered brush on to the newspaper.
“Do you know what, Mabel?” I said, sniffing away my tears. “That’s actually quite good.”
The colours were bright and clear and it wasn’t obvious what it was, so it definitely made you want to ask questions. Mabel picked the brush up again and gently dabbed it on the canvas, adding two wonky triangle shapes next to the larger blobs that were our bodies.
“Are those the nets for the butterflies?” I asked. Mabel nodded. She did a few more strokes but it wasn’t long before she became more interested in the paint on her fingers than the paint on the board.
“Come on. We’d better clean you up,” I said, putting the lids back on to the tubes.
She watched me as she sat cross-legged on my carpet. There were little flecks of dried paint all over her leggings.
“Mummy and Daddy might tell Mabel off,” she said, looking at me and then at the picture.
“I can hide it under my bed if you like?” I said. “It can be our little secret. How about that?”
She grinned and put her finger to her lips.
“Ssshhhh,” she said. She shuddered with the excitement of having a secret between just the two of us and then she suddenly grabbed the painting and held it up.
“Mind out, Mabel! You’re covered in paint. You’ll ruin it,” I said. She put the picture back down, leaving half of a red handprint in one corner.
The Boy Who Fooled the World Page 10
